


some of it remains

by platoapproved



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Can be read as ship or platonic (but intended as shippy), Canon-typical Shoin Institute awfulness, Drugging, Mind-altering Substances, Other, Panic Attacks, Trauma, post-176
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27629171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platoapproved/pseuds/platoapproved
Summary: Skraak has a much harder time with the ritual than they anticipated.
Relationships: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan/Skraak
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	some of it remains

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Coign for the beta and all the encouragement and kind words! Title is from 'As it Was' by Hozier.

Hamid sits quietly between Natun and Draal, sinking easily into a quiet stillness that matches the attitudes of the kobolds. The waiting area that Sohra has left them all in is beautiful. Hamid can feel the sharpness of the cold fresh air coming in through the open ceiling against his face. He isn’t sure if he’s imagining it, but he thinks he can smell, very faintly, the giant bear on which the city is perched. Hamid wonders if it has a name. He wonders how old it is, and whether the city sways when it walks. The thought of that movement - a gentle rocking not unlike a ship - leads his mind to Zolf.

A memory bubbles up in his mind, unbidden, of the storm when they crossed the channel. Zolf, barely visible to Hamid through the wind and spray and rain, throwing his trident away into the sea after Sasha was tossed overboard (because she had been trying to help Hamid, he’d been so _helpless_ back then). Hamid remembers just how Zolf’s voice had broken as he yelled at Poseidon to take him, instead. Because Zolf is like that for the people he loves.

Hamid is overwhelmed then by a sense of interconnectedness. Everything in the world that appeared disparate, in actuality hung woven together, connected by invisible threads as thin as a spiderweb. Zolf, in that storm, pleading with a god he would someday throw away, too. That storm had been caused by Shoin’s kraken. And where had Natun and Draal been, at the moment Hamid was being tossed to and fro on those choppy waters?

Where had Skraak been?

(Hamid knows. The sudden image in his mind—of Skraak hunched and small in one of those cells, their eyes dull and glowing green—makes him shudder. Tadyka notices and looks up, her tail flicking with concern.)

Sohra said that the ritual might take several hours, so Hamid does his best to shepherd his mind away from upsetting topics. He’ll never make it that long without something to do with his hands if he doesn’t guide his own thoughts a little. And yet, try as he might, his mind keeps wandering back to Skraak. Around him, the other kobolds are sitting, meditative, solemn, still, quiet. All of them had gathered like this in the snow around the bodies—except for Skraak. Hamid thinks of the way they had paced the perimeter of the clearing, muttering and planning. Some of it had been practical, of course. Skraak needed to make sure the rest of their people were safe from any other dangers. But was that all? Or was it because they _couldn’t_ sit still?

• • • • • • •

Inside the ritual hall, Skraak sits in the place indicated for them, near Meerk’s corpse. They do not look at it, though it is close enough they could reach out and touch it if they wanted to. Skraak knows just what they would see, if they looked. Skraak has seen many, many dead kobolds before. They used to help clean out the bodies, when they were ordered to. Shoin’s ‘honored guests’ often managed to kill at least a handful of kobolds, before they fell one by one to the traps he’d laid out for them. It was a part of the game, and the kobold casualties were merely a mess to tidy after the fun was done.

Skraak remembers all too clearly how they had hefted the mangled, still-warm corpses over their shoulder and felt nothing at all.

So they do not look at Meerk. Their eyes move instead around the room, flicking between the surrounding gray-clad figures. The one who brought them up to this city, the elder who is also an eagle, starts speaking. Skraak listens, even as they continue to keep watch, searching for any signs of trouble.

“—do not be concerned—”

“—here only to assist—”

“—nothing here can harm you—”

Each reassurance of support and safety lands upon Skraak like a blow, winding the paranoid tension inside them tighter and tighter. What possible need could these people have to say so many placating things if their intentions were good? The more promises they make not to interfere, the more Skraak’s instincts scream at them to run.

Skraak is the only one looking, when those attendants place an urn beside each guide. They crane their neck, trying to see what is inside, and reel back, repulsed by the smell. Something floral and decaying, and beneath that, an acrid tinge of sulphur. They feel their heart beginning to beat quick; it is like the too-familiar scent has reached a hand inside them and hauled out the memories by force. They watch, still as a statue, as the people in gray fan the fumes over them, over Zolf and Cel and Azu.

Skraak watches mutely as the other three guides, one by one, go still. Skraak knows that kind of stillness. Zolf is directly across the circle from them; they recognize the glassy vacancy in his open eyes. His green open glassy eyes. 

They can feel whatever substance is in those urns beginning to exert its influence on them. Skraak imagines the fumes inside them, insidious, unseen. Something unknown, slipping easily into their bloodstream. Making itself at home. The back of their neck _itches_ , right at the old injection site, and they have to fight not to claw at it.

The world distorts strangely around Skraak and everything begins to seem very far away. Their whole body feels so cold, and it is only when the sand beneath them shifts that they realize how much they are shaking. None of the other three is shaking. They look so awfully, placidly calm. 

The elder has noticed something is wrong. Skraak spots her in the corner of their vision, frowning at them. Matters are not, it appears, ‘taking their own course’ in the way that she anticipated. Another wave of sulphur smell hits Skraak, and they whirl around to see the so-called supporter nearest to them with his fan out once more. Evidently he believed Skraak had not gotten a large enough dose of... _whatever_ it is for it to be effective.

Skraak knows that Zolf and Azu and Cel must not be able to hear anything at all. None of them bats an eye at the sound of Skraak’s loud, panicked breathing. None of them moves a muscle as Skraak reels up onto their feet and staggers for the door. The corridor leading out from the ritual hall is not long, and Skraak holds themself together through it, out into the open space with the trees, where the air is sharp and cold and _fresh_.

As soon as they emerge, the heads of all the kobolds (and one halfling) sitting in a circle turn to face them. Skraak keeps their tail still and impassive, even though every nerve in their body is screaming at them to coil it in distress. They cross the distance to the little seated group and grab Hamid by the upper arm, hauling him up. Hamid comes willingly, if a bit clumsily, and Skraak pulls him far enough away that the others won’t be able to hear, though they can feel many worried eyes fixed on them.

Except that, when they open their mouth to speak, they cannot. The words are gone; there is only horror and horror and horror and no sounds that could possibly encompass it.

• • • • • • •

Hamid doesn’t figure it out, at first. His mind jumps to the worst-case scenario—and who could blame him for that, after the year he’s had?

“Skraak? Skraak, what’s wrong, did something happen, where are the others? Sohra said the ritual would take hours, what’s—”

At that point, Hamid’s mind catches up with his mouth. Hamid remembers Skraak, mere moments after waking up in Kiko’s body, steady and calm, their whole mind focused on keeping the other kobolds from worrying. He remembers their unfazed determination after it became clear the ship was going to go down. 

He remembers them still half-drugged in that elevator under the ocean, quietly crumbling to pieces with panic.

“Skraak, _what happened_?”

The fearful, quavering note is gone from Hamid’s voice. The question is firm, almost demanding, and yet Skraak only seems able to shake their head. Skraak’s hand is still wrapped around Hamid’s arm, tight enough that he feels the sting of their claws. He ignores that, bringing his hands up to bracket either side of Skraak’s face. How had he missed it, for even a moment, how much they are shaking?

(Hamid begins, in a tiny corner of his mind, planning the logistics for how they are all going to get out of this place, if he finds out someone has done this on _purpose_ and then has no choice but to introduce them to a fireball.)

• • • • • • •

It is easier to think outside of that room, away from the bodies and the smell of sulphur. Skraak gives themself a few moments to just breathe the cold air, slow, long breaths. They have some practice at calming themself, from the nightmares. It helps, too, that the others are watching from their circle. Skraak has always found it so much easier to be strong for others than it is to be strong for themself.

“The ritual.” The words come slow and stilted, but Skraak can see Hamid’s relief when they begin to talk. “I changed my mind. You—guide Meerk.”

Hamid blinks at them, baffled.

“What? Why? You didn’t tell me—” 

Skraak cuts him off mid-sentence, “I can’t.” 

Hamid looks worried. The kind of worried that means he is ready for a fight, and so Skraak forces himself to elaborate.

“The ritual. There are—there’s a- a chemical. A drug. And I _can’t_.” 

Their voice cracks on the final word, and they are so furious, in that moment. With Hamid for not just getting it for once. With Meerk and Sassraa for falling off that damn airship. With themself for being _weak_. With the world for being a hard and unjust place, indifferent to the suffering of small creatures.

Hamid understands, now. Skraak knows it from the awful sadness on his face.

Skraak takes stock of themself, forces their tail still and straight once more, lets go of Hamid’s arm. Takes their hand from the back of their neck, though their scales still smart there from where they’d dug their claws in.

“Of- of course, Skraak, I’d be— I’m happy to- guide Meerk. I’ll go in and- I’ll explain to Sohra, and I’ll. I’ll get them back. I’ll do everything I can, so— so don’t worry.”

Skraak can’t make themself look at Hamid. They give a tight nod, staring at the ground between them. Hamid lingers just a moment longer, before his feet move off in the direction of the ritual hall.

Skraak glances over to where the other kobolds are sitting, still watching them. There is a space on the floor that Hamid vacated. They could join, if they wanted.

Instead, they stalk over to Barnes; as the panic drains out of them, rage is there, a familiar invigorating ally, to fill up the empty spaces.

Their English is still imperfect, but they manage just fine when they need to.

“Hey, you. I don’t wait. I don’t trust—all this. Let’s find the catch.”

Barnes smiles like he’s just been waiting for someone to ask.

“Yes, _let’s_ ,” he says.


End file.
